


Morning's Fire

by starlightwalking



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canon Disabled Character, Coping, Fire Magic, Gen, Mental Health Issues, Morning Routines, Swords, gratuitous fire imagery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-03
Updated: 2019-10-03
Packaged: 2020-11-22 22:28:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20881700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starlightwalking/pseuds/starlightwalking
Summary: Maedhros' morning routine is interrupted.





	Morning's Fire

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Narya (Narya_Flame)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Narya_Flame/gifts).

> Inspired by the prompt:  
"Maedhros & Original Character. Maedhros/Fingon is canon to me, and I always enjoy seeing him being the protective older brother and cousin, but for this exchange I'm interested in the friendships he forged outside his family. There must have been some, either in Aman, or later in Middle-earth – a tutor who taught him some unexpected life lessons? A healer from Fingolfin's camp by Lake Mithrim, who really, really does NOT want to like the traitorous Fëanorion in their care? A Dwarvish craftswoman? A little girl of the House of Marach, who wants to be a soldier like her father?"
> 
> This took me awhile to write, but I’m very glad I did get around to writing it! The idea of Maedhros befriending a little mortal girl was so sweet, I had such fun writing them :) Thank you for the opportunity, Narya, and I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Additional notes:  
While the focus of this fic is on Maedhros and an OC, there is also some background Maedhros/Fingon and implied Fingolfin/Hador.
> 
> I was also heavily inspired by this line in TFOG:
> 
> "....................................... and Maidros tall  
(the eldest, whose ardor .. yet more eager burnt  
than his father’s flame, .... than Fëanor’s wrath;"
> 
> ETA 10/13/19: Here are the links to further inspiration from various tumblr posts!  
[TFOG Quote 1](https://arofili.tumblr.com/post/181992906332/we-talk-a-lot-about-f%C3%ABanor-being-the-spirit-of)  
[TFOG Quote 2](https://arofili.tumblr.com/post/185986484433/tfog-commentary-3)  
[TFOG Quote 3 + some AMAZING art!](https://arofili.tumblr.com/post/182994982187/piyo13sdoodles-and-maidros-tall-the-eldest)  
...and BONUS links:  
[Mae + sword](https://arofili.tumblr.com/post/187904742857/yen-yen-yen-these-maedhros-sketchesconcepts)  
[Mae in an outfit I imagine he could have been wearing upon his arrival to Himring](https://arofili.tumblr.com/post/187169349122/egobarriart-simple-portrait-of-one-of-my-favorite)  
[Mae smiling and happy because we just don't see that enough!!](https://arofili.tumblr.com/post/186560701947/princess-faelivrin)

The days were bright and long in the summertime, but the bitter cold of the north bit through his layers without heed to the seasons. Maedhros didn't mind the chill; it tempered the heat that simmered beneath his skin, ready to erupt into flame at the slightest provocation. Once he had not been so unstable, but that was long ago, before the blood and the death and the loss of his hand. Now it took all his self-control, and the patience of those who loved him, to keep him sharp and present.

There were, however, a few scant moments where Maedhros could focus his fire somewhere other than inside himself. After centuries of practice, his left hand held a sword better than his right ever had, and he found that a morning routine of bladework collected the scattered embers of his thoughts and gave him the strength to face each day.

It did not matter the circumstances: every morning as the sun rose, Maedhros found a quiet place to work. This was difficult when traveling, but he managed; it was more difficult once he reached the place he was going. At least, it was more difficult when that place was the fortress of High King Fingolfin.

The only thing that centered Maedhros more than his morning rituals was his lover, and those times when circumstances allowed them to share a bed were precious, especially since Fingon was not a morning person. (Fingolfin did not realize that one of his guest rooms was always empty on the occasions that his son and Maedhros visited at the same time.) The arms of his lover were warm and comforting, and this morning he was tempted to skip his practice and remain curled up with Fingon.

But although Fingon protested every time he slipped out of their bed before dawn, Maedhros resisted such desires. While he remained in Mithrim with his lover, Fingon was enough to keep him grounded, but if he broke his habits... Well, things would not be so stable when he returned, alone, to Himring.

Alone in the practice courts before even Fingolfin's mortal soldiers began their preparations for the day, Maedhros began his stretches. He fastened a dagger to the prosthetic at his right wrist, spun his sword to loosen his left, and took a deep breath, closing his eyes.

At once the fire sparked to life within him. He grimaced, holding still. Images of enemies, of whips, of chains danced before him, wreathed in flame—but it was all his memory, phantoms of the past. He was free now, and able to act.

He stepped forward, cutting down first one imagined enemy and then the next. With every strike he gained strength, becoming more precise and powerful, his senses awakening. Moments from the night before—his arrival in Mithrim, the bitter wine of his uncle's table, a flinch as Fingon surprised him with a gentle touch—flared to life within his mind. He cut each away, freeing himself from the dull stain of guilt attached to even the slightest mistakes.

He felt his breathing regulate as he slowed his movements, retreating from the horrors of the past and the regrets of the present. Maglor thought his rituals odd, but when even his songs had failed to lighten the burden that lay upon Maedhros' heart he was glad that _something_ helped, even if he didn't understand why.

He stood still but for the heaving of his chest, sweat beading on his forehead, his grip still firm on the hilt of his blade. Eyes yet closed, he let a small smile quirk at the corners of his lips. Perhaps he could sneak back into Fingon's room and wake him with a pleasant surprise—the day had only just begun.

Distracted by the anticipation of his lover's reaction, Maedhros did not hear the footsteps behind him until the last moment. Startled by the approach, his hard-won focus slipped away. His eyes snapped open, blazing with uncontrolled fire that leapt to race along the length of his blade as he lunged forward, nearly slicing the attacker in half.

Another sword met his own with surprising strength, and through the flames he met wide blue eyes so young he paused before striking again. It was this breath of hesitation that allowed the little girl to twist her blade around, barely nicking his wrist, and flee his wrath.

A child! Maedhros stood dumbstruck for a moment, then cast aside his sword. The fire was snuffed out, and with a blink and shake of his head he centered himself again. This was a slip, nothing more—but it had very nearly been a dreadful one.

"_Nettë_," he called after her, "_neth_! Come back!"

The child stopped, turning back around with the far-too-large blade held before her protectively. "Di'n't mean to startle you," she said. It was not an apology, but a statement of fact. He believed her.

"And I did not mean to attack you," he said. He spread his arms, conscious that since one ended in a dagger it was not so welcoming as he wished. "Please, _neth_, don't run away."

She sized him up, her eyes narrowed. "Alright," she said at last, lowering her sword. He was astonished it didn't fall right out of her grasp, but she carried it with a confidence he had not obtained until he was well into his second century.

"May I see your blade?" he asked, reaching out his hand.

She stared at him, eyes flicking between his face and the dagger at the end of his arm. "Sure, if you show me how _that _works."

He nodded. She handed him the sword, and he hefted it, surprised by its weight. This was no practice tool, but a man's battle-worn weapon. Maedhros was no expert in figuring the ages of mortals, but he was certain she was not nearly old enough to have such a blade.

"Is this your father's sword?" he asked. Aside from its size in comparison to the _neth_, there was nothing remarkable about it; it was crude, mortal work for certain. Whoever its true owner was, they were no one of a particular rank. Fingolfin outfitted his captains with only the best gear of elvish make.

She glared at him. "It's my ma's. My father's dead."

He handed it back to her. "So is mine."

"Tough." She planted the sword point-first into the ground, leaning on it. It was nearly as tall as she; if she had not already proven her grit, the sight would have been comical. "Everyone's is these days." She raised an eyebrow. "You gon' keep your end of the deal?"

Maedhros liked this girl. She reminded him of Celegorm when he was young, of the twins even now: determined, direct, intelligent. As the eldest of a massive family, he'd learned to like children, but it had been so long since he had the chance to interact with one. She'd charmed him already, and more than impressed him.

"What's your name, _neth_?" he asked, fiddling with the locking mechanism at his prosthetic. It was, of course, one of Curufin's creations—the latest model, for he would not stop devising new attachments and modifications. Maedhros was certain that by the time he returned to Himring, his brother would have sent him another version along with a lengthy letter that was mostly notes on its design and perhaps one or two sentences about how he, Celegorm, and Celebrimbor fared in Aglon.

"Thought y'knew it," she said. "Though you're missin' the first bit. I'm Reineth. You?"

"Russa," he said, not wishing to scare her off if she'd heard of the deeds attached to his official name.

"No you're not." She scowled at him. "You're the lord from the east. The king's nephew. Don' lie to me."

He shrugged. "Russa _is_ my name, Reineth. Though you are right that I am known by another. I am Maedhros."

"You gon' tell me what that's all about?" she demanded, pointing to the stump of his right arm.

"My brother made it for me," he said. "So I can still fight, and eat, and do all sorts of things even though I've only one hand."

"An' how'd you get that way?" She raised an eyebrow. "From all your pretty scars I can guess you weren' born like this."

"It is not much of a story." Maedhros didn't meet her eyes. "I was captured by enemies. They tortured me, and hung me up by my wrist. The only way to escape was to lose the hand."

"And you cut it off yourself?" Reineth's eyes were round as the moon.

"No," he admitted. "The king's son freed me."

"Freed your hand from your arm, y'mean." Reineth laughed, but it was a guarded thing. She looked at him like she expected him to burst into flames a second time.

Maedhros gave her a small smile. It was a relief, in some ways, to speak with this child—she was free with her thoughts, not dancing around uncomfortable subjects. Even Fingon, his dear lover, avoided speaking of that incident.

"Believe me, I have heard every joke," Maedhros said drily.

"Not _every_ joke," she scoffed. "You heard the one about the lordling who knelt before the king?"

"I meant..." But she had already launched into the story, a tale that was at once too long and too brief for its punchline, which insinuated the lordling swore his body as well as his service to the king's control.

"You're awfully young to be telling a joke like that," he remarked. "And to wield such a sword."

" 'S not just a joke," she whispered conspiratorially. "How do you think ol' Hador got himself into the king's good graces?"

That startled a laugh out of him, a bark of amusement that set sparks down his fingers. Reineth flinched, but didn't run.

"You elf-lords always do that?" she asked.

"Some of us," he said, flicking his fingers free of any flame. "I've got too much light in me, Reineth. Too much fire. My father did, too, and it burned him from the inside out. I practice like this, every morning, to focus myself so I don't do the same." He paused. "It's harder to control after my escape. I've got holes in me, for it to leak out of, like blood through an open wound. The king's got this kind of light, also, but...his trial was ice."

"It's all froze up inside him," Reineth said wisely. "He can't get it out. So he goes to war to try."

"It's more complicated than that, but...yes." Maedhros sighed. "There's peace now, but... I have nightmares. I'm not a seer—I don't get visions—but even I can tell that the Enemy is plotting something."

"Well, it better wait 'til I'm old enough to fight it," Reineth said fiercely. "My father di'n't get burned up like yours, but I'm gon' set fire too if I don't get a—what'd you call it? Focus?"

Maedhros nodded. He looked at the little girl, impressed. "You'd be an asset to us, Reineth. You landed a blow on me, even if it was only a scratch." A thought struck him. "But you'll do better with a sharper blade." He picked up his sword and turned it around, offering her the hilt. "It's too big for you, but so's the one you got." Valar—he was starting to talk like her!

She grasped it eagerly, looking up at him with a fire in her eyes that looked so elven he shivered. "But what about you?"

"I've got others," he said. "Give your mother back her sword. We will need every blade we can get in the battles to come."

"You said you come here every mornin'?" she asked, testing the blade against her finger. She hissed as she cut herself, but her eyes lit up with excitement.

"I will not be in Mithrim for long," he said, "but yes, you may. Only give me more warning before you arrive, next time—it is a miracle I didn't burn you to ashes today with the shock you treated me to!"

Reineth grinned. "I don' know, m'lord. I think gettin' you all fiery will be good practice for takin' down a Balrog."

**Author's Note:**

> Reineth means "free one" in Sindarin.  
"Nettë" and "neth" both mean "little girl” in Quenya and Sindarin respectively; Maedhros habitually uses the Quenya version before correcting himself.
> 
> This is set just before the Dagor Bragollach, so Reineth doesn’t fight right away, but I definitely think she fights in the Nírnaeth. I tossed around the idea of writing a reunion scene for her and Maedhros, but I didn’t have the time. I think she survives the Nírnaeth and remains friends with Maedhros, maybe even rescuing him from his own self-destructive tendencies after he loses Fingon.
> 
> This scene was also inspired by the one in Tamora Pierce’s book “Lady Knight” (Protector of the Small series) where the main character, Kel, is practicing her glaive and accidentally amasses a small army of children who want to practice with her :’)
> 
> Thanks for reading and commenting!  
You can find me on tumblr at [@arofili](http://arofili.tumblr.com).


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